Éowyn
by thayzel
Summary: Éowyn's account of what happened during her stay in the Houses of Healing
1. March 18, 3019

** Éowyn**  
Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing. 

Reviews are welcome. I'd appreciate any kind of honest opinion and criticism, please read carefully.

Disclaimer: Characters, plot, places etc.: not mine.

**Year 3019, March: 18**

in the early morning hours / still dark.

I have let the Warden in the Houses of Healing, where I am presently lying, bring me these materials I request for writing. My left hand and arm, broken by the force of the Witch King, is limp, and not even in a proper sling; but since yesterday afternoon I think – though I cannot remember clearly – that my right arm, poisoned by him, has started to recover and is almost healed, as far as I can perceive. The past three days I have rested long times, and slept for what I thought was days but turned out to be merely hours; now I feel my strength rebuilding, and the urge to run free again.

Rumours I hear that the men will ride to the Eye and challenge him and sacrifice themselves for the Ring–bearer. I can hear the whisperings, but they avoid telling me, as though I should insist on riding with them. And their hearts are true: I would insist; I wish dearly to join the men in their hopeless quest, facing a heroic death. Alas, I know I would not be let, and also I am, though gaining strength slowly day by day, just too weak to hold against those biding me stay here, or even coming up with a scheme as I did before.

It is not that I do not have the time to think – I have more than enough, and seconds pass like centuries. It is not that I cannot think clearly, for when I am awake no vile pictures distract me and I could manage a trick easily; it is because I know my body is too weak, and strained, and I would not want them discover me halfway and send me back like a disobedient child.

Also, the trust I have brought in my former scheme has not been proven: With my faithful Merry, a hobbit worth praise and gratitude, for he has done more than service or friendship requires, I have indeed slain the Witch King, and so rescued my uncle Théoden from an unworthy death, but I have not been as injured as to be lying next to him, no, instead I lie injured, weakened, sick and pitied by many in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, in the kingdom of Gondor, away from home.

I do not blame the Prince Imrahil or Aragorn for saving me. I do not desire death; I desire heroic death. The current state I am in is a burden: it confines me and I cannot fight. I have not given it much thought till now, as I was haunted by darkness and shadow. Most times, I have been sleeping, overcome with memories of my childhood and vivid pictures of looming black silhouettes poisoning and drawing over them; I fear sleep and yet I know I need it for rash recovery.

The women avoid speaking with me, and tell me little; but I can hear what they do and do not say to me, and so in few words they say I do not lie peacefully, but toss and turn, murmuring words in a language unknown to them; with knowing smiles they look at me and indicate that the Healer and King listens.

–I do not remember any terrifying scenes in my dreams, but they are all depressing and incredibly gloomy. I am not always watched over; but my sleep is not as restless as before, so they say.

Perhaps, if the men ride in a few weeks' time, I could be able to summon my strength and join them, but as it stands, I think they will hurry, for there is little time and haste is bidden. There never is time in these days.

And now, while more peaceful in sleep, I am restless when awake; for I cannot stand being idle, even not when recovering: It is vain, and I am bored. Which is why I have requested a stalk and ink and paper. The ink is pale, almost translucent, other than the one which is used at court in Rohan; but on even fairer thin paper it is well visible, shimmering in a light bluish gleam.

I enjoy writing; and though it might deem to some as idle as doing nothing, it occupies me; but my mind still wanders out of this room I cannot leave – the Warden forbids it. But I know he pities me, for on my request even though in the middle of the night he brought the writing supplies.

I know I strain his nerves with my fervent asking when I can be released at last; yes, it is stupid of me. And every time he tells me he was given orders for me to stay for at least ten days, which is from now on more than seven, even eight, for the third day has not really begun.

I can wonder who has given him these orders; for who would dare to order me?

My brother, perhaps, but he understands little of healing and the herb–lore. My heart tells me it was Aragorn, the king, for I have seen him, too, but I push the thought out of my mind; it does not seem appropriate to me.

That was a foolish sentence: am I a foolish girl? I surely do not desire to be called such, as would any other maiden take a liking to that name, but my behaviour, at times, has proved my foolishness. Although Lord Aragorn has never really encouraged me, he has never rejected me clearly. –Of course, looking back, he could not have rejected me without hurting my feelings, and if one does not encourage, as he did, the other should not build hopes upon not being rejected, as I did.

When he left me, he kissed my hand, but I perceive now it must have been a farewell, one telling me to hope: to anticipate a reunion in friendship and respect in better days, not to bestow further feelings on his person. I cannot recall the kiss clearly; the memory is not swallowed by the shadow, but at that point I was not prepared, and a kiss on the hand is extremely brief. All I can remember is the pain of realisation at his words: a shock, for I should never be his queen – a dream I often dreamt and wished for I my naïveté.

Oddly, being here, I do not hate this place for have been deprived of it in my imagination. It is beautiful and charming; and I, Dernhelm, thought while riding upon the field that the White City of Gondor was indeed handsome and with right be called White City. I did not have very much time to think about the city when I was involved in the fighting, of course. Nevertheless, my first impression of Gondor's capital brought forth wonder, admiration and joy in the exhilaration of battle.

But now I think Minas Tirith will always remind me of the encounter with the Witch King on the Fields of Pelennor. For this shall always haunt me in dark hours – and the happy hours may stay scarce: How long will there be such? This one battle is won, and the Witch King extinguished, but the Dark Lord does not rely on one servant only; the forces of Mordor are brooding and the Eye will conjure up new strength. If we give it little time to bring up new soldiers, there may be a chance, but no one knows how many creatures already guard the lands of Mordor. Still, we have to attack as soon as possible – I hope for the men they part soon and fight to die; for they are forced to, and they will. But for my sake, I wish they waited.

The Lord of Gondor will ride with them. I am torn between a yearning for his presence and yet when he appeared in this room and I knew it, I secretly wished he would go; for I saw he does care for me: As a warrior, as a shieldmaiden, as the niece of the now dead king of Rohan, as the sister of the future king of Rohan, as a strong-willed woman. But he does not love me, he does not care for me as a lover, and I notice now what I have not before, so I would rather have him stay away so not to destroy my illusions.

However, I cannot forever hang on to these dreams; if I do not destroy them, they shall destroy me when the time comes. It is a hopeless situation, a time full of sorrow and grief, so these memories would, perhaps, help me. But I do not want to be helped in this way! Losing myself in these dreams when the end of this age is drawing near is cowardly and faint-hearted; and that I am not, have I not proven such? In my heart, I will let the men ride without me: to a glorious victory, or peril and the end of the world which will turn into a dark place, the reign of Sauron, the Eye embodied. And either way I shall envy them: but I can make the best of staying here, and I will. This is what my pride tells me.

If the time comes, and the dark force has not been conquered, this city will be the threshold to the world's regime and the White City of Gondor, Minas Tirith, will not fall without a slightest meaning, but shall withstand the Dark Lord with all the forces it can gather, so it will not be said we gave up without any kind of resistance.

And when the men are gone and my days of rest over, I shall start practising again; and I shall teach everyone still dwelling here how to wield a sword. Those wounded who stay here too, soldiers and warriors there are, surely, these are my hope. With their help, and they with mine: We shall build up a miniature army that will fight the legions when our last hope fails, and we shall give our lives and will fight for all that matters; for there is no hope, and this is my dream.

I know we shall have to give up – I should not think this, but it is truth…

We will fight to the end – our end. I see myself already – oh, I should stop. Even recent dreams stay dreams, and I should face reality: I lie in bed, I – listen.

Yes, I am right. Listen. News. The sun rises – I cannot see it really, but even though I do not look toward the east, the sky is slowly lightening, the sun rises, and I hear horns and trumpets. Yes, I can hear them: The men ride. In my kingdom it may be a proverb, but this time the proverb comes true: They ride to ruin and the world's ending. But not to mine – yet. I thought it would be more shocking… but perhaps it is, though I feel numb, as if someone had let all my blood out of my body. But I will have my chance. It is definitely egoistical, selfish, disgusting and absolutely revolting of me to hope for it… is it only a game?

The horns sound. The trumpets blare. Rohan rides forth. Rohan rides without me, Éowyn. Rohan rides without Dernhelm, faithful forever to his king. The king is dead. The king is dead. Is a new king appointed? Éomer, my brother, would it be. Dernhelm would be ever faithful to his king.

I am disappointed. I shiver. I am cold. I am worn out and tired: I must sleep.

They have ridden. They are gone.


	2. March 19, 3019

** Éowyn  
**Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing. 

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

**  
Year 3019, March: 19**  
the late hours of the day / already dark

Again and again, as soon as I wake up, the dreary feeling overcomes me. When I try to sleep, it is restless, so I wake up, but when I am awake I get tired very quickly.

And it is only one thing I can think of now: They have ridden and I am not with them.

And in sleep, I dream of another encounter with the Shadow, and it shows me how small a thing I am, how easy to crush and then I fall into endless depths without waking up but I know I will and I know that when I wake up I will realise the falling will never end so I try to restrain the urge of opening my eyes but I am waking up slowly I know and then I see the nothingness below me and I still fall towards it…

Images dash through my head when I try to rest. Images of a time long ago in Rohan, in the House of Eorl.

My mother is crying, rolled up on her bed and I run to her. I see her ring lying on the floor, her precious wedding-ring she kisses every day, and I pick it up and stroke her and try to press the ring into her clamped hand but she doesn't take it and it drops on the wet bedspread and she sobs and I lay down beside her and go to sleep, my short arms around her.

When I wake up she is sitting

and I look up at her swollen eyes

and smile and ask her if she was alright now

and she cries again

and I say don't cry mama

but she does,

and when the crying has ceased

she tells me how much she loves me

and that my father has gone to fight the orcs

and I think I know that,

he does that often

and then she cries again

and tears flood her face

I remember thinking it looks like a little stream

and it strikes me slightly funny

but I try keep a solemn face when she says

I am so so sorry but you have to be strong now

and she hugs me much too tightly

and tells me my father will never

come back from his hunt, never ever

because he has passed away

and I start to cry with her

and when she goes to sleep

I run away to stand in front of the hall

and look out for my father

but then I stumble upon

a great wooden case with fine carvings in the Hall

and a lot of men standing around it

and know intuitively where my father is.

My brother comes into my room

wearing a huge helm on his head

and I shout at him because he knows

I hate being bothered

but then I see that he is almost crying so

I take his hand

and he guides me to the room of our mother

and I see his frightened look

and go inside while he stays outside

and pulls the door shut

and I see my mother

and see that even under her tons

of sheets and blankets she still

looks much too fragile and thin,

so I don't run in her arms but ask

mama? are you well?

but she looks at me

and mentions me to come forward

so I do

and stroke her face which feels so hot

although she's shivering

and she takes my face into both her hands

and tries to smile at me

and tells me that she loves

me and my brother

with all her soul

but she can't stop loving my father

because she loves much too much

and I don't understand it because

my father is under the earth

but somewhere in me I know she will die

and the pounding in my ears starts

and gets louder and louder

until I cannot hear

what she is trying to tell me

and break away and run.

I am looking out of my window in Edoras, and I envy the other children playing in the sand. Maids are sitting in the shade, sewing or occupying themselves with other housework,

and the sun is shining brightly

and I just want to turn away

when the sky gets overflowed with dark, black clouds,

the children scurry towards home

and the maids run into the house

and I rush downstairs

and want to tell my uncle the king

about what I have just seen

and run to his seat and babble away until

I notice the stranger beside him,

clothed in dark garments

with a greasy smile

and I think it is fascinating how suddenly

against the dark my uncle

has become so pale

and almost translucent when the stranger smiles

his greasy smile to me

and says I am a pretty child

and listening to me is fascinating

and I know it should sound like a compliment

but the way he says it,

it cannot be

and then I hear his cackling laughter

and run away, pressing my hands over my ears.

But the laughter continues and continues and I flee, but the more and the farther I run, the louder and nearer it seems but still every day I wake up I start to run and even in the night I run and I hear the voice insulting my family and smirking audibly, but I must run and so I run and run and run.

And I run,

crossing the fields of Pelennor,

Minas Tirith in sight,

but then my feet drag

and I look at them

and notice I have run into a shadow,

but there is naught around me,

just bare field, neither trees nor rocks

and my heart is filled with fear

because I know it

and as if to confirm my thoughts,

my head is lifted by a the tip

of a huge, glinting sword

and I look into the Shadow of Evil

that fills my sight

so I cannot see anything else

but black darkness coming towards me ever so slowly,

and I grip for a weapon but I cannot find one

and then darkness creeps into my body,

deliberately at slow pace

as if to relish every moment of my angst

and it hurts so I cry out loud and fall deeper and deeper…

When I woke up, it seemed to me as though I were out of breath, my feet sore and my arms aching.

I looked around and blinked, and saw that my white sheet was tangled with the blanket which was drooping over the floor and my pillow slightly damp. My eyes felt swollen so I am quite sure I have cried – the dreams had been so real, I could even recount them and picture them again.

But then I felt footsteps echoing in the hallway, and they were coming towards my room, so I quickly tried to straighten the blankets and prop myself up on the pillow, but I didn't succeed well, as when the Warden entered the room he looked worried and when his eyes set upon me his eyes flew open like in shock. He was friendly, though, and didn't enquire too much – he had heard my voice screaming once, and so he had come over to check on me, but once I had reassured him – smiling as nicely as I could – that I had had merely a nightmare, he seemed more at ease, although his brow was still furrowed when he went out.

I fear the sleep, but being awake and aware of my helplessness is almost worse. And my eyes need the sleep – crying seems to make them swell up and puffer when I just do not need it.

* * *

The style of this chapter is slightly different, to make the memories more intense; _ClapToSaveTheFairies_ says it gives the dreams a surrealistic touch. I'd appreciate any opinions on that and everything else, please review with reason. 


	3. March 20, 3019 One

**Éowyn**  
Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing.

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

**Year 3019, March: 20**  
early hours of the day / sky is lightening

I must have drifted to sleep yesterday. It seemed to me as suddenly the room would swirl around and around and close me in, and instead of getting up I closed my eyes, and the last thing I saw was my eyelids swirling around and around, too, producing images in blurred colours.

When I woke up, I was feeling astonishingly peaceful and rested. I turned my eyes to the ceiling and smiled at the stone. I looked upon my blanket and realised it was smooth, and laughed. I looked around me and felt the happiness overflowing in me and glanced outside. I was wondering what I had dreamt of – it was something about me and Éomer, and Théodred – and what I had done yesterday to make me wake up so gladly when I looked out of the window. Something was disturbing there, though I could not put my finger on it. I tried to draw happiness nearer to me and not let it escape, but it was leaking out, like from a broken cauldron.

I looked out of the window again, and remembered. It was not facing east. I could not see the sun rise, or… what? The last time I had looked out of the window came to me, and the thoughts I had had flowed in as easily, too.

"The sun rises – I can't see it really, but even though I'm not looking toward the east, the sky is slowly lightening, the sun rises, and I hear horns and trumpets. Yes, I can hear them: The men ride."

They ride? Why, and to which destination?

My brother? Théodred? No, not Théodred. He could not possibly –

And intruding my innocent, forgetting thoughts, reality bore me into a stumble of the past and present.

Théodred was dead, I realised. He had been slain long ago. Or was it not as long ago as I had thought? I must ask my uncle to tell me when it happened. It is embarrassing I do not know. The king knows… where will he be? In Meduseld? Or… and then the image of a tomb floated into my mind, and it was clear to me he was dead, too. I had failed – I had wanted to save him, but I had not succeeded. Or had I?

But my mind wandered on. Who was the king of Rohan now? Who was to rule in Edoras? Théoden was dead, and Théodred could not his place. The next kin was my brother. My brother! Then my rational mind concentrated on him while my view strayed around the room and out of the window again. I blinked. Oh. My only brother Éomer was in war, wasn't he? And the war he was riding to was dangerous. Perhaps he would never come back and I would never know when Théodred died.

Yet, when I thought about it, it perceived me that if Éomer would not return I myself would be queen. Frightened at such a thought, I gripped the pillow I had been toying with such a force that I see the white of my knuckles. I scolded myself for being so superstitious. And if it were so, I would be queen.

I tried to regain composure, relieved that no one had entered the room to see me in this state, and wiped a few tears that had cunningly slipped into my eyes away with such a force that they burned. It was most likely he would not return, I mused. After all, he was riding into a war only a few days after fighting, and this one would be hard. They rode with less men than had come to the last war. Plausible, many had fallen or been injured.

A queen – I had often, in my childhood, dreamt of being queen. I remembered how I had adored Théodred, and followed him everywhere where he went while he dwelt at Edoras. I knew I could not wed my brother, but Théodred was my cousin, and he had to marry. He was always kind to me, and our relationship never involved quarrels like I often had with my brother even though we loved us dearly.

I was too little to think of love, but it was a pleasing idea – my brother would approve, for he liked Théodred as well as I did, though in another way: to him, the older boy (almost a man) represented a sort of authority, and an idol – and when I asked Éomer once what he thought of me marrying, he said I must, and taunted me that Théodred was not yet engaged. "Maybe he's waiting for you to grow up", he shouted, when I stood up, trying to look insulted. But inside me, though I was mad at Éomer to hint I was not grown–up, I rather much fancied the thought of Théodred waiting for me. Later I took up the courage to ask him "would you wed me someday?" perfectly solemn, to which he laughed and said perhaps and distracted me. I didn't pursue this matter any further. Not long after that a shadow fell into my life and he was gone.

Frowning at my childhood memories, I went over to planning my life as a queen. I would have to rebuild Rohan – the destroying had been raging all over the country, and with the march to Helm's Deep, people still had to settle. I promised I would create a new and peace – loving country in Rohan that would battle with evil forces victoriously, with honourable and trustworthy inhabitants. I would prove Gríma Wormtongue, the fool, utterly wrong.

_If_ I were to be queen. I smiled at my far–fetched imagination.

And then I froze. My heart beat in chest as if to set up a record, and I realised that a while ago, reality had _not_ come crashing down upon me, but, like the sun, revealing slowly what had lain in the shadow. And now she stood in the zenith.

If Éomer dies, there is nothing to lose. If he is dead and the mission the host set our for is failed, I will never find any time to return to Rohan and set up my country. There will be naught I could do.

I reproached myself for thinking anything about his return.

And now, I have been sitting in my bed for hours, writing, looking out of the window and always then thinking of the stupid and idiotic things I thought of.

I feel so guilty for my thoughtlessness – I was in a daze, but that does not justify anything.

How could I forget the doom? If I do nothing now, I will ever feel guilty – how long ever may be. I cannot stay here while my brother and many valiant men fight for us.

It hurts, more than any wound could, and I shall always blame myself for thinking of a life when others die trying to save it.

There is nothing I can do to aid them. I wish I could, but it has not been possible.

I hear the footsteps. Perhaps I cannot aid them, but aid could be given to me. I have decided.


	4. March 20, 3019 Two

**Éowyn**  
Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing.

* * *

I've sorted out this incredible mess I've made with _Éowyn_. Appalled at my own stupidity and inattention- please forgive me.

This fourth chapter is chapter three in former count, so nothing new- to those who read this for the first time, say, two weeks ago, you might want to look at chapter three which I forgot at a certain point. Sorry about that. I'm working on more, I promise…  
On the other hand, I've re-beta'd the chapters and discovered quite a few phrases with wrong turns and expressions I thought unfitting as well as grammar stuff I should've corrected long ago. Most of it has stayed same, so there is no great need in rereading it, except for what I mentioned above, but of course you may.

Since the plot's no new thing, I must concentrate on the style. I am aware that an ordinary person wouldn't be able to transcribe a whole dialogue from memory, but I wasn't willed to change perspective throughout _Éowyn_ and leave out her personal comments.

Oh, and the length of the chapters varies quite a bit because they're split up in entry times.

Hopefully, everything's fine now (at least formally), but that shouldn't hinder you to point out any mistakes or comments concerning 'plot', logic, sentence construction, grammar etc. –I'd be extremely grateful for that.

_Because I haven't done this before properly: Replies to reviewers (ch.3)_

_TheLastBLACK17_: Thanks for all your reviewing- I've been checking out your stories lately. I'm open to your compliments (and critique, if you post it) any time! It's nice to have someone reading from the start (which isn't too long ago, but, hey!).

_Lilan_: Thank you. I'm glad you say this… that the 'initial apathy' as you aptly called it, isn't unlikely. I was unsure about it and feel better now. -Sorry to disappoint you, I'm still working on a chapter five, and as you can see, I'm not the quickest update…

_Voldie on Varsity Track_: Go Watership Down! And thanks for the praise concerning this!

_WildBlackWolf_ who is –lookie- too lazy to login: glee joy -That means a lot to me… I wouldn't want anyone to turn over in their respective graves, especially not Tolkien! This is supposedly a story for the purist (in me)… thanks for confirming!

Thanks & sorry to all reviewers from a dismayed and extremely muddled-up thayzel.

* * *

Disclaimer: see first chapter. Quotes (unmarked as such) especially included. 

**Year 3019, March: 20**  
early afternoon / sunny weather

There is much to tell. Much has happened since my decision only this morning to dress.  
It is confusing to say, even now, but to sort out my thoughts I will write it down in the proper order.

After the disturbing awaking from numb sleep and the even more disturbing awaking from numb consciousness, I had regained all my composure (which I have left) when the two women entered. When they had bathed me with fresh water in a bowl they had brought and crushed a herb that, it seemed to me, had a wonderfully calming scent, they tended my arm. I then asked them about news of the host, but they said there was nothing they could tell of.

Then I asked to bring me raiment, and they obliged without too much fuss. They did seem hesitant at first, and tried to argue with me, but when I persistently asked, the older one nodded to the younger girl – an apprentice, it seemed, with a shy smile and darting eyes – and she scurried off. While the girl was gone, the older woman set my arm into a sling of rough linen, and she was still coaxing the cloth in a knot when her apprentice turned up in the doorway with a bundle of clothes.

It was a rather simple dress I was clad with: A very light beige, almost white, that could easily fit anyone else, even a pregnant woman, for it could be tied loosely by wish. It was quite long and went almost to my feet. I did not object when the younger girl tied it rather tightly around my hips, for I wanted to make the impression of a healthy woman with a recovered sense for her outward appearance towards the Warden.

When I was dressed, I thanked them, and the two women busied themselves in my room. I walked out and with my hand, I touched the cool stone wall of the passage. It was empty, I noticed – no extra beds that did not fit into the patient's rooms and had to be crammed in the corridors like it had been in Edoras sometimes. It was a pleasant memory, the familiarity of it, the opposite of these cold echoing walls.

The passageway had ended and I saw myself standing in a large and, surprisingly, bright hall – quite contrary to these corridors. A man with dark hair was pacing up and down in front of a table covered with books and loose sheets of paper, holding one of the latter in his hand, apparently reading and in deep thought. I coughed, and he turned to me, then lay down what he had been reading very quickly.

I do not know how I had known it, but I assumed him to be the Warden of these Houses. He had a certain air around him that is impressive and authoritative, and slightly… fatherly.

He seemed busy, yet willing to engage me, and so I greeted him with due respect.

"Sir," I said, "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie longer in sloth."

"Lady," he answered gravely, "you are not yet healed, and I was commanded to tend you with especial care. You should not have risen from your bed for several days yet, or so I was bidden. I beg you to go back."

I knew I ought to stay in bed longer, but even though writing as I do now occupies my mind, it does not satisfy my spirit, that was alive, and so I told the Warden:

"I am healed, healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease."

I saw him looking at the sling and smile, and then he raised his head and looked at me questioningly. I went on.

"But I shall sicken anew, of there is naught that I can do. Are there no tidings of war? The women can tell me nothing."

I was hoping he had received news; after all, perhaps the women did not know anything because these causes were not of their interest – after all, I am not accustomed to Gondorian habits; I thought the Warden of the Houses of Healing to be a more reliable source.

"There are no tidings, save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul Vale;" the Warden said, and I was, on the one hand, relieved, and on the other very disappointed. Observing the look on my face, he continued:

"And men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief."

I nodded; I had already supposed it, so it was no big surprise. But it was news, and I was eager to hear more. Encouraged, the Warden drifted off:

"A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield a sword. It is not thus in Gondor now, though once it was so, if old tales be true. But for long years we healers have only sought to patch the rents made by the men of swords. Though we should still have enough to do without them: the world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them."

He strode to the eastward window, and I followed, looking longingly and faced him again.

"It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden. And those who have not swords can still die upon them," I responded politely but firmly, and stated my opinion, "would you have the folk of Gondor gather you herbs only, when the Dark Lord gathers armies?"

I saw his eyebrows twitch at this underlying affront, and he started, but I waved him off with a small movement of my healthy arm, and continued speaking after a small pause.

"And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would chose the latter."

I again admired the sight in the East, but was aware that he could not solve my problem, for he could barely understand me. Wordlessly, he watched me, and sighed, so I turned to him again.

"Is there no deed to do?" I asked him, and, with an air of despair:

"Who commands in this city?"

After a silence, evidently considering what to say next, he spoke.

"I do not rightly know. Such things are not my care. There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Húrin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

I stiffened ever so slightly at the mentioning of Éomer, but then relaxed when I saw him watching me closely. I could not remember having heard of a commander called Lord Húrin, but the name Faramir rang a bell somewhere, although I could not have placed him had not the Warden included that information, I am ashamed to admit.

"Where can I find him?" I asked, expecting that either he had ridden with the other Lords or that I would be showed to the Hall. Almost unknowingly, I was looking out the window again, bending to get a better view, marvelling at the sight I had missed and yearned for, sighing inwardly. When the Warden spoke, I was slightly disturbed but turned to him.

"In this house, lady," he surprised me, and, giving an explanation, "he was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know ––––"

He faltered, and quickly, having regained my stiff posture, I asked, or demanded, unsmilingly:

"Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know."

After a thought he nodded obligingly to show his approval, and told me he would accompany me – certainly to ensure that neither the Steward nor I fainted suddenly in sight of each other. I followed his lead, his pace echoing louder than my footsteps in the hallways, when he stepped outside. The light was quite bright in comparison with the corridors, and I felt my eyes adjusting. I noticed the Warden was waiting, and motioned him to go on. It was warm outside, but still the feeling of coldness did not leave me.

Walking into the gardens, the Warden presented them to me as those of the Houses of Healing, and I admired at the thoughtfulness of letting the sick wander in nature. We approached a tall man with shoulder–long, dark hair from behind, who was pacing slowly towards East, gazing at the stone walls.

The Warden spoke his name when we were near enough for him to hear, and the Steward of Gondor turned to him. In that movement he became aware of me, who was watching at him, and he returned the gaze intently, and I saw how he changed from a polite welcome to a piteous greeting. My first impulse was to turn around, but I checked myself sharply, turned my regard to the ground and held my breath, while the Warden did his best to introduce me.

"My lord, here is the lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with the king, and dwells now in my keeping. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak to the Steward of the City."

At this, I sighed inwardly again, looked back up into his face, and, trying to be polite and not upset or anger his pride yet tell the truth, I added distant, but polite:

"Do not misunderstand him, lord. It is not the lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle still goes on."

I hardly saw the lord Faramir give the Warden a sign to depart while I was speaking; but he did, and this created an unwanted intimacy between us, for no one could hear us talking. Despite the fact that he had gestured the Warden to leave, the Steward had listened intently, his eyes never leaving my face, and answered with understanding, so it seemed to me.

"What would you have me do, lady?" And when I did not say a word, he added, more quietly:

"I also am a prisoner of the healers."

At the tone in his voice I, who had lowered my eyes to the ground again after my speech, directed my head upwards again, and saw his eyes, unreadable save a the glance that appeared on them when the dark of them passed me. I saw he was looking towards the walls again, but not with such a yearning as I did. The pity he obviously felt for me did not infuriate me as much as I had thought a man's pity might; for I saw also another emotion behind the curtain. It was a grave tenderness, such that he took me serious and cared for my well–being; and I saw him, half turned away from me, against the standing sun. His profile was distinct, but there were deep lines of grief and pain in his face; yet, I thought, he unconsciously had a proud and steadfast attitude that filled me with sudden respect for a man who had not ridden to the greatest war, and I understood he must be a fine and outstanding warrior; and I doubted that there may be any better, even though the glance full of sentiment might have betrayed his courage to others.

I admired him, but I did not envy him, and lost in my contemplation, I ceased to reply to his question, so he repeated it, seeing I had been distracted; but he did it inconspicuously so that I not be offended.

"What do you wish? If it lies in my power, I will do it."

I, by then, had prepared an answer, and said:

"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go."

The moment I had said these words, I suddenly felt foolish; I had uttered them proudly, convinced: but still, they sounded childish and immature, and knew then that my wish was no possibility for the Steward; his responsibility would prevent him from granting it.

As I had anticipated, he denied my request:

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping. Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City."

These were no valid arguments; both he and I were aware of it. His authority was proven by the fact that the Warden regarded him to be consulted for my matter; and I was sure the Warden would relent to Faramir's commands, officially proclaimed Steward or not. Faramir must have seen the growing indignant look on my face, because he pressed on quietly, with what I thought a very small sharp edge in his voice:

"But had I done so, I should listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."

He was reproving me, with right, and I tried to explain to him my motives.

"I do not desire healing. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace."

He thought, or waited for me to continue, but when I did not, he reasonably told me it were to late to follow the Captains even if I had the strength. From any other, at another time, I expect, it would have been an offence, a veritable insult: I, kin of a king, warrior, honourable shieldmaiden (I think I've drawn up this list already) accursed of having no strength?  
But he was right, and he said it in a way so matter-of-factly that I could not but consent: He spoke the truth. I needed only to accept it.

"But death in battle my come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."

I pitied myself then. Here I was, a warrior without war to attend, being pitied by one in the same situation: Restless yet helpless waiting.

My whole life was ruined, the perspective I had drawn out of dreams: destroyed.

I would have cried, had I not been out there in the gardens with a man who wanted my well-being. As it was however, solely a single tear managed to escape from beyond my eyelids and in an attempt to cover this, I lowered my head; but I had not fooled him.

I looked at the ground, grey stones arranged to form a path, with dusty earth filling the gaps, small blades of green grass peaking through. I shuffled, and said something incredibly childish of not being able to look eastward from my chamber quite under my breath. But the Steward apparently had a good hearing and cheerfully told me this minor item could be amended. He concluded,

"If you stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will; and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

Clearly, this was a request; and in normal circumstances, I would have been bound to accept the invitation. Yet his slow and thoughtful speech, the tentative approach he was voicing left me the choice, and I blushed slightly, unused to these compliments.

"How should I ease your care, my lord? And I do not desire the speech of living men."

"Would you have my plain answer?" he asked, gazing at me very seriously.

"I would."

"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful" – this statement (even though I had claimed to accept his plain answer) astounded me, and I barely comprehended his further explanations, something comparing me to flowers or hills and the mentioning of darkness; but I jerked to attention when he spoke of the "wings of the Shadow", because this described accurately the picture that lingers in my mind, my dreams, still.

When I realised he had finished his speech, I replied, rather startled, that I was not fit for him, rather replying to his request before than to his explanations now that I had ill-manneredly not followed :

"Alas, not me, lord! Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden, and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least (I had summoned a few of my senses), that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the city."

I stumbled across words, and before I should actually blunder, I did him a courtesy to which he gravely tilted his head, and retired to the house, walking faster than necessary, luckily without literally stumbling, which in my state would have been rather probable.

There was no place to go to, save my own chamber. I did not want to find myself face to face with the Steward when I had just walked out on him; as I hardly knew my surroundings in a city strange to me, I would not know where a Steward would pass his time, especially considering the fact that he, too, was presently dwelling in the Houses of Healing. I sat down on the edge of my bed, debating what to do, but back in well-known terrain, a drowsiness overcame me, and I lay down.

I could not rest for a long time, and soon, I was studying the ceiling. My limbs were motionless, but my thoughts twirled about in my head, replaying the events of the morning

Once, the frail girl who had dressed me knocked and entered, and whispered, "Lady? lady, are you not well?" in a high-pitched voice with a notion of anxiousness, but I thanked her for her helpfulness, and assured her all was well with me. On her request, I directed her to set down the porcelain jug filled with water and the tall glass she was carrying on a tray on the small desk in the corner of the room. She complied wordlessly, and curtsied with a nervous smile before hurrying out of the room.

When the door closed behind her, I fell back into my former pensiveness, but my thoughts rather strayed from the meeting with the Steward to a more previous encounter with a far greater foe, and I shuddered. Aware that if I went to sleep, nightmares and visions would haunt me, as they had before, I decisively stood up and went to the small table next to the window. It was facing a piece of embroidery which pictured two small children playing in front of a tower – undoubtedly somewhere in Minas Tirith, I mused, for it was built of lightly coloured stone. At this display of hope I smiled, and arranged the desk so that it was diagonally facing the window with the embroidery to be seen. Both the desk and the stool, that stood in front of the former, were simply crafted and light, and to my astonishment, they hardly made a sound when I dragged and pulled them to the right angle (I had been prepared to hear a horrible creaking sound), until I discovered the cloth that was attached under the wooden legs.

It will soon grow dark; now and later. There is little to care for, even those small pleasures that delight now: when the city is destroyed, they will, too, be ripped to shreds, burned, and what will be left are ruins of our eliminated existence. And here I am, foreseeing this destruction with dread, damned to suffer the knowledge of the darkness that casts its preliminary shadows upon us, damned to endure with patience the hours of waiting – oh, this sounds so harmless, so safe, when the expected decision could cost us more than our lives.


	5. March 21, 3019

**Éowyn**

Éowyn's journal in the Houses of Healing.

Apologies for the long break.

Disclaimer: None of J.R.R. Tolkien, Ann Brashares or Katherine Paterson is mine.

**Year 3019, March: 21**

Evening / dusk

Last evening, the Warden indeed came to inform me that he had received order to remove me to another room. I gladly accepted his guidance while he expressed his worries.

"Lady," he said, "I sincerely hope changing the chamber is not to your inconvenience. The Steward himself has given me the task; your conversation earlier this day did not anger him? He asked after you, and I referred him to the Halfling, Master Merry, but beforehand the lord Steward gave me this order and it is on his word I enact; I am compelled to tell you that the room appointed is fairly small and simple in comparison-"

The Warden is a man who makes a trivial remark sound like an imposing and rehearsed speech, but I found that this one had an interesting information: apart from careful but not very subtle probing about the relationship between the Steward and myself, the Warden had included that the man who had granted my wish was making inquiries about me to Merry, who, as I concluded, was alive.

Merry! Lost in my own reflections I had forgotten that he, too, was brought here – and I had neglected to express my profound gratitude and respect. I did not know about his current condition. How severely was he wounded? He was well enough to be trusted to speak with the Steward, but I wondered nevertheless. I would pay him a long due visit as soon as I could; not only out of politeness and a sense of duty I felt as a representative of the throne of Rohan, but because Merry and I had fought together as equals and I cared for his well-being.

"So it is possible to visit Merry?" I asked, and the Warden nodded his consent, whereupon I assured him of the other matter he had spoken of, stating it had been my own wish the Steward had enacted on, silently thankful the Warden knew naught of my childish longing for an eastward-facing window.

He seemed only marginally relieved, and in an outburst of confidence, I stressed that even if differences existed, the Steward and I had parted in friendship. A white lie to console the Warden and myself.

I insisted that my armour, still carrying the familiar faint stench of blood and body odour of the battlefield, be brought. Perhaps this is again a childish action, but I would not leave my sole belongings behind; especially when a spare armour might, in little time, become a sought-after object in this city, and to me means to self-appreciation and honour.

As a metal case, ready to be brought to a last use it lies in a corner of my room which is, as announced, smaller; the only furniture the bed, a small table beside it, and a chair.

Otherwise, the room is empty, and the view is directed to the window, the window facing East: and there the wideness of the plain stretches out in front of the eye, the sheer beauty of never-ending freedom.

It is almost frightening to see the vast extents of the destruction I partook in. Thin smoke arises from dark heaps of corpse and debris on a field where death occurred thousandfold. They are the remains and the foreboding of war, and the horizon boundary for the eye but not for uncertain knowledge.

Looking out into the fading light, melancholy befell me, and it seemed to indicate a darkness passing over us all.

Yet when I woke up after an almost undisturbed sleep with the first rays of sunlight illuminating my room, I could not help but sense a dimmed happiness in my soul at seeing another sun rise. Pushing away the guilt I felt for being at ease, I gave way to lower needs: my mind was screaming for fresh air; apart from the short interlude in the garden, I had been imprisoned in this building for far too long a time; and, remembering the Steward's invitation, I was dressed in the colour I chose: perfect, spotless white, and went outside.

However, despite the prospect of a peaceful walk in the gardens, I could not refrain myself from merely looking over the wall to the East, where the sun was still low, but glowing fiercely, and the misty clouds dipped in an orange-red hue.

Compared to this, the view out of my room seems hardly anything special, almost small, confined. This morning, I could not think of adequate words beyond magnificent to describe the sight from the garden's walls. I felt like I was seeing beyond to a shining world – huge and terrible and beautiful and very fragile, in its essence untouched by gloom but wholly alive.

The light morning breeze was blowing my hair out of my face, my fingertips touched the top of the wall ever so slightly: standing and watching, I inhaled the fresh air which was still cool from the night.

The city below had awakened, smoke rising from the houses, quite like that rising from the field, but here, indicating life, not death: the same situation but reverse meaning.

The wind carried the echo of voices and the low rumbling of wagons, but the sounds were dimmed and far away. It was quiet area in the busy city where I was, and I was thankful.

I did not hear someone approaching.

"My Lady?"

I turned to face the Steward standing, at a small distance, next to me.  
Casting my eyes to the ground, I inclined my head slightly, in acceptance and returning of his greeting.

"It is early in the day," he remarked casually and turned to the horizon.

"A soldier's habit," I replied, and he added,

"which applies to both of us."

During our last conversation, he had made it clear that he desired to spend time with me; that was my impression, at least. And for the last days' solitary confinement, I was willing to comply, hoping also to improve his opinion of my behaviour he must certainly tend, even though he seemed not one to judge quickly.

Accustomed to the rough speech in war I had been unsure of myself when I had first approached the Steward; and, at first unaware, then with growing appalledness, I had intuitively employed both the court's conduct as I knew it from Edoras and a freer speech as I listened to the past days, for the soldiers say what is on their mind.  
They might have called my expressions too affected (including a couple of curses) while a lady or lord must have felt them as utterly indecent, even though they would never say this to my face.

As well as certain behaviour, good education and upbringing must include polite conversation; that would be the rule in every country. I hoped Lord Faramir would attribute impoliteness to "a soldier's habit".

"Sire, I heard you have paid Master Merry a visit."

I made a point looking at him and he blushed slightly, nodding.

"How does he fare? For I have yet failed to do my duty."

Lord Faramir searched my face.

"One should think it more than a mere duty."

From any other, I should have understood this remark as plain rudeness, especially coming from a new acquaintance, almost a stranger, as the Steward of Gondor was to me. Reproving a lady on the second meeting would require worse than dreadful manners, which the Steward quite evidently did not possess.

His eyes were full of honesty and his apologetic smile told me he was being fair. He was conveying that he had asked Merry about me; and I knew now that Merry had informed lord Faramir of all he knew. Perhaps the Steward was aware that I was already informed of his inquiries; nevertheless, I was impressed by his integrity.

I wished to make a favourable impression on the Steward.

Perhaps I have politics in the back mind being a representative of Rohan.  
Perhaps I needed to prove that I was amiable.

However it is; Gondor intimidates me. How could Rohan compare with this magnificent city? The first sight of Minas Tirith had filled me with awe, and I remembered this thought, I felt shame: shame for my country, my descendance, my blind pride, my behaviour-

Had I had any of these feelings any earlier, I should not have stepped out of my room, but as it was, I was involved in a conversation with the Steward of Gondor, the mightiest ally of Rohan.

Treading softly on unknown ground, I would not ask the delicate question why he stayed in the Houses of Healing. The Warden had hinted at sickness, but I could perceive none, neither physical or mental. The matter would be uncovered elsewhere.

Determined to ask questions about him – for I did not want to speak about myself with the Steward of Gondor – I asked where he had been and what experiences he had made. It was a vague question, a typical one between soldiers. Where do you serve, what is your rank and position? Any kind of evasive answer would suffice.

The Lord Faramir answered gravely.

"I was Captain in Ithilien. We scouted and attacked legions who followed Saurons summons; it was known terrain to us, and we were prepared, but their number exceeded ours greatly; thus, our success was limited.  
Once we met the two Hobbit friends of Merry on their journey, Frodo and his companion, the gardener-" here his eyes twinkled almost mischievously, and he paused, reminiscing,  
"and I learnt of their task and burden."

Another pause, heavy, growing earnest:

"My elder brother was dead, and much of what had been his duties were now mine. And my lord father befound it necessary to hold Osgiliath because of its strategical position, but I succeeded not, and retreat was difficult. I am told one third of the surviving company was lost- it is bitter. A poisonous dart had wounded my and I knew nothing."

He smiled, a twisted smile.

"And thus, I am here, called by my king, recovering and blessed by your presence. Lady, what has brought you here?"

I coloured; I was puzzled. Had he not spoken with Merry about me?

"My Lord, but you have certainly heard of it!"

"Lady Éowyn, your own account I deem different from that of Master Merry; and to hear it from your lips will delight me."

Uncertain how to reply to such a compliment – was this common in Gondor? I would not know – I chose to ridicule the situation and turned to a tree nearby and exclaimed:

"The Lord Steward seems to be investigating the case of crime committed by the niece of his allies'-"

He chuckled as I choked. My uncle- it had slipped from my tongue. My treacherous mind had slipped back into the assumption that nothing had changed; habits overcoming knowledge in an impulse.

Suddenly, with surprising solemnity, the Steward's voice came through to me.

"Let us walk." he said and offered his arm which I took automatically, and we moved along the wall.

He spoke slowly, grasping for the words to voice his thoughts, and his carefulness was full of true emotion.

"Accepting death of a beloved one never is easy. The initial blow may never –never- be cured completely. Do not expect it to be Remember King Théoden and bear in mind that he died the most honourable way a man can; and that he proved himself valiant and worthy of his people, as a true leader should."

He paused, and started again,  
"And that you, Lady, have enabled his peace with your life. It is naught but a consolation; your loss is not lessened but it is a happy thought among the sad."

The words lingered in the air and filled the silence as we walked through the garden. I pondered over them.  
Was the loss he was talking about Rohan's loss of its king or could he have alluded to my envy: that it had not been me who had died saving my people? He could know, for he, too, was a warrior; and I had perceived the bitterness when he spoke of the poisonous arrow.  
I dared not ask.

"But, my lady: protecting your people and defeating the Witch King is already quite at the end of your story-"

The moment of gloom had passed, and I took the hint.

* * *

There's an expression stolen from _The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants_ and not quite a sentence from _Bridge to Terabithia_, both very touching and wonderful YA/children books. You can guess where they're hidden, or ask and I'll give you directions or you can choose to not bother at all.

Care for a review? An honest, even ever-so-short review really cheers me up. Thanks.


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